


Get in, Get out, Get even

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - The Italian Job Fusion, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Heist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27171229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: May Parker was the best in the game—invisible, elusive, a myth. Then her brother and his wife were killed, and she suddenly had a kid on her hands, and she split her time between the con and getting her nephew through prep school. She met MJ around that time, started the not-so-subtle effort of teaching her everything she knew. May deals with a decent amount of guilt over him; MJ’s met him a couple of times, and honestly he seems like he’s doing alright. She’s not supposed to have to interact with him beyond that, but then a job goes south, and three years later, their paths cross on the way to justice. (A spideychelle!the Italian job AU)
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	Get in, Get out, Get even

MJ likes Genoa. 

It has its art like the rest of Italy, but it’s a trade city, built on industry and ports and machinery. She can sit in a luxury hotel at midnight, and see the next days’ arrivals at the port; it’s a thing of beauty. She adjusts the view on her binoculars, watching a large crane swing a crate around the port, metal shrieking. 

“Leeds?” she asks, into the headset in her ear, and there’s an immediate response of keys clacking loudy, now that Ned’s switched his mic on, and they can hear the cacophony that is his computer setup at some undisclosed location with a clearer path to the heavens. 

“Satellite has been commandeered; we’ve got 100 meter horizintal accuracy, 156 meter vertical accuracy, .340 nanoseconds time accuracy,” he reports.

“Nice,” MJ says; all she really needed was the first four words, but the rest of it lets him show off, so what’s the harm.

“I’m glad someone understands his technobabble,” Betty mumbles. She’s with MJ in the hotel room, sans binoculars, squinting out over the port in the dark. 

“None taken,” Ned says, though Betty didn’t offer a ‘no offense’ addendum. “Where are your Italians; someone’s gotta turn the homing device on.”

Betty smiles faintly; MJ can see her expression in the large window, back lit against the dark outside. “Don’t be petty, Ned,” she chirps. 

Betty’s Italians were a group of questionable men she met a couple jobs back; MJ didn’t like bringing more into their crew, but they did need some locals for this leg of the job. 

“Where are they, Betty,” MJ asks, scanning the port again with the binoculars. 

“They’ll be here,” Betty says, shifting on her feet. “Have a little faith.”

The port’s empty. 

“Liz, how’re we doing?” MJ asks, and another comm switches on, an engine roaring in the background. 

“Oh, we’re fine, babe,” Liz says calmly. “Or we would be, if Brad would keep his feet off the dash of my car.”

“Three points of contact,” Brad snaps. “I don’t love being thrown into the window every time you hurtle us around a Genoan corner at 40 mph.”

“We’re in Europe,” Liz says, and there’s a beautiful revving sound as she switches gears. “That’s 64 kilometers, to you, dear.”

“Where’s May?” Brad asks, instead of responding. 

Probably calling her nephew, MJ thinks. 

May Parker was the best in the game—invisible, elusive, a myth. 

Then her brother and his wife were killed, and she suddenly had a kid on her hands, and she split her time between the con and getting her nephew through prep school. She met MJ around that time, started the not-so-subtle effort of teaching her everything she knew. May deals with a decent amount of guilt over him; MJ’s met him a couple of times, and honestly he seems like he’s doing alright. As far as MJ knows, the kid’s as clean as his parents--barely a parking ticket among the lot of them. 

There’s a key in the door, it beeps, and May strides into her room. 

She’s tucking her phone into her jacket pocket, and MJ pretends not to notice. Their eyes meet and May looks over at Betty. 

“Italians?” she asks.

“Not yet,” MJ says, going back to her binoculars and hoping no one hears the tension on her voice. 

“Everybody breathe,” Betty says. “They’ll be here. We can trust them.”

The lines are suspiciously silent as everyone bites their tongue. 

“I trust everyone,” May says, coming over to the window, looking into the dark water. “It’s the devil inside them I don’t trust.”

Betty pushes some of her hair behind her ear, nodding. 

“So,” May kicks MJ’s foot. “Anything decent in the minifridge?”   
“Hardly,” MJ says on impulse, then registers what May is actually asking--take a walk with me. She pulls off her headset, laying it on the bed. 

“Want anything, Betty?” May asks, and the blonde shakes her head before the two leave.

They wait in silence for the elevator. 

“How’s it feel to be running it?” May asks as they step into it, and MJ presses the button for the lobby. 

MJ waves a hand; by now, she’s supposed to be a hell of a lot better at masking her stress than this. “I’m fine.”

The elevator dings as it passes each floor. 

May laughs a little, softly, to herself. “Ever heard what ‘fine’ stands for?”

MJ is fairly certain May’s not about to give her the Merriam Webster definition. “What’s that?”

“Fucked up, insecure, neurotic, emotional.”

The elevator lands on the first floor, dinging as the doors open to the lobby. 

“That’s cheery,” MJ says.

“That’s me,” May says. 

They walk over to the bar, not like either of them would drink on a night like this. 

On a job like this. 

May orders’s two seltzers with lime in short glasses, straws please; it’ll look like vodka sodas to anyone just walking by. Which is good for inconspicuous purposes.

May leans against the bar, reaches into the side of her jacket, a fine cigar emerging from the leather pockets. She slides the wrapper across the bar. 

“For after the haul,” she says simply. 

Neither of them smoke, unless to show up misogynists, but it’s the biggest Boys Club gesture that exists. A reminder to the both of them that they’re creating their own space in this game. 

“Hope I get to light it,” MJ says, taking the cigar, pocketing it.

“The Italians?” May asks, and MJ nods. 

“If they don’t show, that’s three months of work and you here instead of in Queens, violating God knows how many different paroles, for shit.” 

May sips the seltzer like it’s something stronger. “Forgot how easy it is to be calm when you’re not the boss.”

“Thanks for your support.”

They tip the bartender and head back upstairs. 

Betty’s Italians do show, eventually. 

Two customs inspectors board the ship with the large crate. MJ watches through the binoculars as they pretend to inspect crates of tomatoes, and sneak a homing device into the crate. 

“Got ‘em,” Ned crows, over the coms. 

“Hey, Liz,” MJ says into the headset. 

“Right here, darling,” Liz calls back. 

“Wanna be a millionaire?” MJ asks. 

“You know it,” Liz says, and there’s a squealing of brakes and a curse from Brad as the SUV screeches to a stop. “And Brad’s just itching for a swim.”

\-- 

It goes how it’s supposed to. 

Brad scubas under the docks, paints a bomb on the side of the ship.

MJ and May are waiting a couple miles out to sea, they clear the area, and Ned detonates. The ship’s crew is fine--May’s definition, but also safe--they make it back to port in a dinghy and don’t stick around to see what fell through the hole in the bottom of their ship. 

The safe, hidden among the tomatoes, lands at the bottom of the sea. 

The crew cracks it, and MJ’s breath catches when they open it. 

Even underwater, even in the dead of night, the gold glistens. 

160 blocks of it, 25 pounds each, Leda and a swan engraved on the face of each. 

Thirty million dollars in solid gold. 

She and May smile at each other through their masks, and set to work loading it onto their DPVs. 

The last remains of the boat sink and a parachute rises; MJ and May steer it from the harbor and down to a secluded beach. 

Liz has already picked Brad up, Betty too, waiting at the beach. 

It goes how it’s supposed to go, the whole heist, seamless. 

It goes how it’s supposed to go, until it doesn’t.

\-- 

The getaway was clean and uneventful and they’d just begun to think they’d gotten away with it when an unmarked black Jeep starts speeding towards them on a bridge through the Alps. 

“Is this a problem?” Brad asks, as Liz’s hands tighten on the wheel. 

“Behind us, too,” May says quietly, and the rest of them turn around quickly, to see another unmarked vehicle. 

“Shit,” Ned says.    
“MJ?” Liz asks. 

“Uh uh,” Betty says, and when they look forward, she has a pistol fitted over the back of the driver's seat, against Liz’s skull. “MJ doesn’t tell you a damn thing anymore.”

MJ’s heart stops. “Betty, what--”

“Try something stupid, MJ,” Betty says, voice like ice. “And her brain’s going through the windshield.”

MJ doesn’t say anything. 

The Italians get out of the black Jeeps, because of course they do. They have AK-47s, aimed at the SUV; Liz’s hands are off the wheel and the rest of the car is silent. 

“Betty,” MJ pleads. “This isn’t the smart move, please, just--”

“You know all about that, don’t you?” Betty snaps, she turns to look at MJ. “Such a good planner, MJ, you’ve thought of every angle, MJ, figured it all out, MJ, so smart, MJ--well, what about this, huh?”

MJ recognizes some of Betty’s words as commendation from May, over the years and tonight, when they’d pulled the final gold out of the sea. 

The Italians are unloading that same gold now, putting it on carts and wheeling it over to their vehicles.

“We will find you,” May says. “Wherever you go, however far you think you can run--we will.” 

Betty keeps the gun on Liz, tilts her head as she climbs out of the car. She walks around to the front of the car. 

“You won’t,” she says.

And she aims the pistol, then fires.

The word erupts in machine gun fire, screeching tires, grinding metal, a plummet from the side of the bridge; it all blurs. Two things crowd MJ’s mind. 

Betty’s face as she pulls the trigger. 

May’s expression as she braces herself before the bullets hit her. 

\--

They make it out, the rest of them. 

Because I am so smart, MJ thinks bitterly, as she drags May’s body out of the SUV once it’s settled on the bottom of the river. Liz comes over and helps her; they close her eyes and Brad pulls Liz away when she can’t stop shaking. Ned stays by the water’s edge, too new to the crew to feel like he’s not intruding, but still knowing reverence in this moment is worth more than the tech he lost to the bottom of the river. 

MJ sits on the wet stones, May’s head in her lap.

She feels numb; presses her fingers against the pulse point on her wrist, checks that it’s still there. 

It is. 

May isn’t. 

She wants to cry, wants to scream, wants to get so drunk none of this matters anymore, to explode in something that will devastate the picturesque river and mountains and two black Jeeps with Betty and her Italians. 

Turn it all to ash. 

\--

Three years pass, in days that feel like centuries and months that feel like moments. 

MJ would spend the rest of her life looking for Betty, so it’s just as well. 

She didn’t think her hunt would take her to New York. 

She hesitates for a moment outside of the glass window in west village, PARKER LOCK AND SAFE COMPANY stenciled on the glass in crisp white. Through the window, she can see the shop looks decades older than anything else on the Manhattan streets—vintage safes, iron locks, new models hidden among them. A bell chimes as she opens the door, and MJ nearly jumps out of her skin when a crumpled pile of blankets in the corner speaks.

It’s not blankets, but an old man, in a truly impressive patchwork quilt of a cardigan, a receptionist of sorts; he directs MJ to an office in the back of the shop. 

MJ steps lightly. 

She’s not sure what she was expecting, but this place, dripping in antiquity, isn’t it. The office is covered in books, protective sleeves removed so it’s just red and blue spines in the dim interior. A small window lets in some sunlight, illuminating dust with the afternoon glow. The desk is cluttered, paper with writing in a slanted scrawl from every direction, scribbled on whatever page was closest. The computer looks new, something Ned would probably approve of, a variety of tools strewn around. 

A horn blares outdoors. 

There’s a squealing of tires, a clean stop that would make Liz smile, and a door slamming. MJ resists the urge to cross over the office again, to peek through to the front of the stop, and instead wipes her hands on her jeans, leaning to rest against the desk. 

“How long?” the old man asks, after the door chimes. 

“Four minutes,” says a younger voice, a little higher than she expected, “Forty-three seconds.”

The old man chortles. “Nicely done. There’s a home safe in Fairmount Park; owner died and the wife doesn’t know the combination. Flash Thompson called, too, says he added two false contact points on the tumbler and wants you to test his prototype combination lock tomorrow morning.”

A short laugh. “So do you think six or seven minutes?”

“Six, easy,” the older man laughs, then remembers. “Oh, there’s a Michelle Jones in your office.”

MJ winces at the silence that follows. 

Then a steady step on the creaking wood floor, and MJ leans back against the desk as Peter Parker walks into his office. 

“MJ,” he says, in a voice that she’s not sure what he means.

“Hey, Parker,” she says, a two-finger wave.

They look at each other for a minute, worlds crossing. Peter steps inside, closing the door behind him.

He looks good, MJ thinks, the way people out of the game look handsome instead of hot. Broader shoulders than she remembers, and remembers again as he crosses his arms over his chest. 

“I don’t think I was unclear, last time,” he says, and MJ sees anger rolling behind the composed demeanor.

He wasn’t unclear, last time. 

She’d been the one to tell him about May; his face had crumpled, then the rest of him. She’d stepped towards him, words empty, dying in her throat, and he’d flinched away from her. Told her that he’d better not see her again. 

She hadn’t blamed him then, doesn’t blame him now.

“You weren’t,” MJ says. 

“But you’re here,” Peter says.

MJ pushes away from the desk, doesn’t miss the way that Peter moves a little, wary. 

“I found her,” she says, the words settling among the dust in the air. 

Peter’s expression doesn’t change.

His grip on his arm tightens, though.

“I can tell you where she is,” MJ pushes.

“I don’t want to know,” Peter says, immediately. His jaw ticks and MJ waits. 

A clock sounds, in the hallway. 

Peter sighs, dropping his hands. “Where?”

“California,” MJ says. “LA. We heard through the grapevine, a guy named Skinny Pete is buying three or four bricks with ‘some grecian emblem’ on the top.”

“Good for you; why are you here?”

It’s warranted, his anger. She showed up with the worst news of his adult life, and as awful as her goodbye had been, she knows it’s better than not getting one at all. 

MJ licks her lips. “Betty changed her last name, she’s at an address out in Hollywood Hills. She had a Worthington 1000 installed in the house, before she even moved in.”

Peter shakes his head, crossing his arms again. “I don’t deal with ill-gotten goods.”

“We took it from a terrorist group that was a week away from trading it for bio-weapons,” MJ says. 

The crew doesn’t know that. 

They just know it’s gold. It doesn’t make her Robin Hood, but it’s the best kind of good she can try for. 

Peter’s surprised by that, not enough to cut her any slack. 

“No one in my crew can handle that safe, Parker,” MJ says, and she looks around the office, rather than at Peter. They both know why she’s hesitant to go outside her crew again.

“I work with the law,” Peter says, “not against it.”

“It’s not against--” MJ breaks off, trying not to snap. She’s not about to debate the righteousness of taking back what was hers and May’s, from the person who took everything she shouldn’t have. “Your aunt is the only safecracker I knew who can open a Worthington 1000.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not a safecracker,” Peter says. “I’m a technician.” 

“You’re May’s blood,” MJ says, and the dust seems to hover on the sunbeams. “You were her family, and this is the only chance we have to set things right.” 

“We?” Peter says, and his voice is quiet, tight, like he might just let something break through the veneer. “Who the hell is ‘we’, MJ? You’re the one who took my aunt across the sea, dragged her back into a life she was supposed to be done with, you and your crew, and I was here. I wasn’t there when she--”

He breaks off. 

He turns quickly, finds the door, pulls it open. Stares straight ahead, not looking at MJ. “Get out,” he says.

There’s a lot for MJ to say. 

I’m sorry, for starters. 

I’m glad you weren’t there, didn’t have to see her die like that. 

She loved you more than any of us. 

But MJ steps away from the desk. She pauses in the door, looks over at Peter. He’s right at her height, their eye level the same, and he looks reluctantly. 

“May was the ‘we’,” MJ says. “The bridge between your world and mine. I’m just trying to do right by her.”

Peter holds her gaze for a moment, a hundred things flashing behind his brown eyes. His chin dips, just a little, an acceptance. Then he pulls the door a little farther open, please go. 

She does. 

She winces at the bright sunlight as she steps out onto the street. The city is loud, busy, but she still notices when Liz steps out of the crowd and falls into pace beside her. 

“Doesn’t look like that went too well,” she says, offering MJ her iced coffee.

MJ declines. “Pretty much went as expected.”

“So, worse than not well,” Liz sighs, taking a sip of the coffee. “Sorry, hon.”

MJ shrugs. “He’ll come around.”

Liz drops behind her to make way for a group of high schoolers crowding the sidewalk, then steps back beside her. “What about Chris Buongiorno?” 

“He’s got another six left in his ten at Levinworth.”   
“Damn,” Liz mutters. “Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“Hmm. Yasmine Monette?”

MJ pulls out her sunglasses. “Chemo.”

“Zach Cooper?”

“He got religious.”

Liz flicks the empty cup at a trashcan. “Of course he did. Look, MJ,” she stops short, her hand on MJ’s elbow to stop her too. They shift to the side of the sidewalk so the rest of New York can flow around them. “I don’t know about a civilian.”

MJ looks down at the arm on her elbow, and Liz drops it. “A civilian or May’s nephew?”

Liz bites her lip, caught. “This is too big of a deal to let emotions into the room.”

This is a big deal. 

It won’t bring May back, but it’s the closest any of them are going to get to justice. MJ takes a second, the sunshine and street noises of the city filling the silence. 

“Liz, you think any of us can be unemotional on this one?”

Liz shakes her head. “We can push that down, MJ, you know that. We’re pros; he’s--”

“Family,” MJ interrupts. “He’s her family. He didn’t get to be there for her last time, and he needs the chance to be there this time. That’s all we can do.”

Liz considers it. She pulls out her own pair of sunglasses, then tilts her head up the avenue, and they continue on. 

It’s not what they’re comfortable with, but it’s what’s right. 

\-- 

Le Bernardin is always crowded; the maître d' lets MJ by with a look and she sits at the bar, orders a seltzer with lime, looks at it funnily, then reminds herself what Liz said earlier today--they’re pros, they push it down. 

In the mirror over the bar, she can see into the dining room, narrow tables lit by dripping candles. Personally, MJ would rather get seafood from a shack on the actual beach, but Le Barnardin is the best in the city. 

She’s not surprised Parker has good taste. 

Well, in food. She’s not sure about the date and, if she’s reading his expression correctly, he isn’t either. 

The girl’s back is to the mirror, but MJ saw her scan the menu by prices rather than offering, ordering the most expensive dish just for show, and no one’s missing how she keeps shifting to watch the door each time a man with a Rolex walks in. 

Nothing wrong with having tunnel vision. 

MJ just doesn’t know why the girl would look further when Peter Parker’s right in front of her. 

All told, she doesn’t feel bad about the spill. 

The busboy practically salviates when she slips him a couple folded benjamins, and she makes him promise to aim for the dress, not the suede jacket. 

Because she’s a decent human, she has him tip over a tray of waters, not red wine. 

Still, it’s a pretty spectacular shriek that rises when a sheet of ice water slips from a tray onto table 15, and the girl beelines to the bathroom to mop off her dress. Peter is helping the busboy wipe down the table, assuring him it’s fine, when MJ slides into the seat across from him. 

“So,” she can’t help but smile when she sits, and Peter’s face cycles through a couple emotions as she does. “How goes the date?”

“What are you doing here?” he whispers, before realizing he doesn’t need to whisper. He clears his throat, nods to the busboy who smirks at MJ before leaving. “Wait, did you set that up?”

“You’re welcome for that, by the way,” MJ settles. “It was just water, so it won’t stain. I come here all the time.” 

Peter’s eyes narrow, and MJ thinks that he’s walking the very fine line between doubtful and intrigued. “I doubt that.”

MJ sips her lime seltzer. “These are my people, come on. The guy at the bar, tan suit, gave me 90 days in county once.”

Peter laughs, then remembers that he’s supposed to be mad at her.

He has a nice laugh, MJ thinks. 

“Okay,” Peter says, “So what are you here for?”

“Just stopping by, saying hey.”

“MJ,” he says, eyes narrowing. 

MJ shrugs, sets her glass down, and drops an envelope on the table. Peter picks it up, not breaking eye contact, and MJ thinks it’s sweet, because he’s trying very hard to be upset, but it seems to be very counterintuitive to his normal disposition. 

His eyes flick down to check the contents of the envelope.

“This is a ticket,” he says.

“That so?” MJ sips her seltzer. 

“To LA,” Peter deadpans, reading. “For tomorrow morning.”

“Isn’t that convenient,” MJ says. “I’m heading to LA tomorrow too.”

Peter closes the envelope, tapping the narrow end of it on the table. When he looks back at MJ, his expression is the closest to open it’s been all night. “Why won’t you leave me out of this?”

She doesn’t have time to unpack the years of guilt leading up to this.

Or explain the flutter in her chest when he laughed, easy, like summer. 

So she traces a droplet down the side of her glass, figuring candor deserves candor. “May wasn’t just a mentor, she’s the closest thing I had to family. I wish... more than anything, anything, that I could bring her back...but I can’t. The best I can do is--”

“Pete?”

Ah, his date. 

They both look at her, the wet splotch on her dress, suspicion on her face, and Peter’s expression shutters again. 

“Susan, hi,” Peter says, and MJ isn’t sure what it means that his voice sounds a little different, talking to her. “This is Michelle, she’s a, uh, family friend. We just bumped into each other.”

MJ stands, the date’s eyes widen as MJ keeps standing, her heels putting her near six feet. “That’s me,” she smiles, “ _ Michelle _ . On my way out.” 

She looks back at the table, the envelope, then at Peter again. He’s watching her, but doesn’t say anything as she goes. 

The busboy salutes her as she leaves, and MJ walks quickly, ignores the eyes on her. She’s halfway down 51st when she hears her name being called through the crowd. 

Peter’s jogging, pushing through people, and when he stops in front of her, he’s breathing quickly. He brushes his hair out of his face. 

“She took May,” he says, voice steady. “I’m taking this. I want to see the look on her face when the gold is gone. I’m in.”

MJ nods, her thanks silent.

She walks the rest of the way down 51st before hailing a cab on 7th, and doesn’t turn back to see if he went back to Susan or not. 

\-- 

The crew travels to LA separately. 

Different planes, different airlines, different layovers. 

In LA, Ned gets a taxi, Liz rents a U-Haul panel truck, Peter hops on a hotel shuttle bus, Brad grabs the red line from the airport, and MJ rents a car. 

Different hotels too, hostels and luxury stays, airbnbs and dives. 

MJ’s at Shutters, and they all slink in over the afternoon. 

“You’re doing alright out here, aren’t you,” Liz says, as she walks out onto the balcony. The guys have beers and Liz joins them when MJ hears the knock on the door. 

Brad and Leeds exchange confused looks, which is fair, because they don’t even know why they’re in LA yet. Liz had to know, but MJ hadn’t wanted to get their hopes up until she had Peter confirmed. 

He looks nervous when she opens the door, and MJ tries to ignore the fact that her automatic reaction to that is to reassure him. She opens the door and he steps inside, rubbing his hands together. 

“Alright, team,” she says, leading the way out to the balcony. “This is Peter. Peter, the team.”

Brad hops up right away, strides over to shake Peter’s hand like the two of them aren’t sizing each other up. 

“Brad Davis,” he says. “Demolitions.”

Peter blinks. “Like...like bombs?”

Brad spreads his hands and grins, and Peter nods, almost dazed.

Liz steps up next, and MJ tries not to laugh at the look on Peter’s face. She always delights in watching men trip over themselves when they meet Liz. 

“Liz Toomes,” she says, handing him a beer, and clinking her bottle with his. “Getaway car.”

“Sure,” Peter says, faintly. “Hi.”

“Hey dude, I’m Ned,” Ned says, bright smile, genuine. MJ has the feeling the two of them will genuinely hit it off; they’re both the wholesome kind of smart, the kind of adults who no one is surprised to know have the entirety of the Star Wars franchise committed to memory. 

“What’s up,” Peter says, and they fist bump. “What’s your thing?”

“Oh, tech. I’m the guy in the chair.”

Peter grins. “Nice.”

The team sits, and Peter looks between them, nodding a bit, before frowning, and looking back at MJ, eyebrows raised in question. 

She half-smiles; they don’t have time for a list of her sins. “Thief since the day I was born, Parker.”

Liz raises her bottle, as do the boys. 

MJ motions for Peter to sit, and she does the same. She threads her hands together, running through a mental checklist before she begins the brief. 

“We need a video blueprint of the interior; we’re not doing a thing blind. Brad, I want to know everyone who goes in and out of the house.”

“On it.”

“I’ll take phones,” Ned says, looking at Peter. “Phone companies are embarrassingly easy to hack; I’ll get you a copy of all their lines, MJ.”

She nods. “How long do you need?”

“Tomorrow morning good?”

She nods. “That’s why we pay you the big bucks. Liz, get us a route from the house to Union station, downtown?”

“No problem, hon,” Liz drummed her nails against her bottle. 

“Parker, how much time will you need with the safe?”

“Five flat,” he says, looking down.

“Five minutes,” Brad echoes, not doubting, but doubting. “For the Worthington 1000?”

“Probably four and a half,” Peter says, looking up, a little glint in his eyes. “Thought I’d round up.”

Liz smiles, taking a drink, then looking at MJ. “I like him, M.”

“So,” Ned clears his throat. “You gonna tell us who the mark is?”

MJ rubs her hands across her jeans. “We’re finishing the job we started in Italy.”   
The balcony is quiet as Ned and Brad take that in. 

Ned blinks, then looks at Peter. “Peter...Parker?” he asks.

Peter nods.

“Damn,” Brad says. They all look at him, feeling it too. “About time.”

The sea and gulls echo around them, their individual and collective thoughts louder still. 

They fit out the U-Haul as a surveillance vehicle; Brad reports back that there’s an anti-scaling fence, with some pretty intense reinforcements. Armed guard, 9mm in his holster, but a solid grenade could take out the security booth. The dogs will be a little harder, shiny and hungry. Hybrid navigator video security system, monitoring 132 intrusion points. 

Leeds says the best way to beat that is to trip it, call it in as false, and go in after, so the actual breach is disregarded. 

Liz nearly has an aneurysm sitting in traffic, trying to find the best route. 

Ned’s the first one to see Betty, voice clipped over the coms. Her hair’s blonder, she looks meaner, and her car’s going to boil Liz’s blood. 

Peter memorizes the Worthington 1000 safe manual. 

Liz tries another route. 

MJ’s security shift, they lock down the housekeeper and groundskeeper schedules. 

They turn off Liz’s mic; it’s just her yelling at the gridlocked traffic and laying on the horn as another route succumbs to LA traffic. 

“It doesn’t matter the time of day, it’s bad, real bad, or move back to Wisconsin bad,” she tells them, regrouping back at Shutters. 

“I’m telling you, public transit,” Brad says, rolling up with sleeves. 

“Yes, I’m sure no one would notice us with duffle bags of stolen gold on the train, Brad,” Liz retorts. 

“Best guess,” MJ interjects, before that spirals. 

Liz sighs. “All greenlights...fourteen minutes. I did that route twenty times, MJ, and I’ve never done below thirty-two. The highest was over fifty.”

“Ned?” MJ prompts.

“Oh, sure, I can hack a traffic grid.”

Liz stares at him. “You can...hack...a traffic grid?”

“Sure,” Ned lifts a shoulder. “I mean, it’ll take some doing, I have to get into--”

“What the hell have I been doing for the last two days, MJ,” Liz rubs her temples.

MJ grimaces. “Sorry.”

The hotel door closes, and Peter’s there, frowning. 

The three on the couch exchange a look. 

“You okay, hon?” Liz calls. 

Peter doesn’t move. 

“Parker,” Ned says, and Peter looks up. 

He rubs the back of his neck, walking out to the balcony. Whatever energy he’s giving off, it affects the rest of them. 

“Uh,” he says, sitting hard. “I was thinking about that video blueprint. It has to be me, doesn’t it?”

Brad and Liz both magically get texts and pull out their phones for closer inspection. Ned looks worriedly at MJ, who nods slowly.

“Betty thinks we’re dead,” she says, which Peter already knows.

Peter smiles, not funny. “So you guys can’t just walk into her house with a camera.”

“Hey, man, you don’t have to--” Ned begins, but Peter shakes his head.

“We need that layout though, don’t we?”

Ned purses his lips, nods.

“Look,” MJ says, because it sucks beyond belief, and they really thought that Ned would be able to crack into the house security, “we can keep trying other ways.”

“If this is what gets it done, it’s what gets it done,” Peter says. He pushes to his feet, walks over to the balcony; Brad and Liz give up on the pretext of their phones. 

“MJ,” Liz lowers her voice, “We’re sending him--”

“I know,” MJ says. “I don’t like it either. But what choice do we have?”

The next morning, Liz lifts a uniform and spare key from a driver down at the energy company, Brad cuts the cable line with relish, Ned explains the camera in the american flag pin to Peter, and MJ tries to convince herself this is a good idea. 

Peter doesn’t say much as he puts on the uniform. 

Liz makes a face at MJ when it’s a little tight, and MJ rolls her eyes. Ned will hangout in the back of the cable van, Brad will wait down the street, just in case. 

MJ isn’t sure what the ‘case’ would be, that would merit both of their involvement, but it does make her feel better. 

She motions, and the rest of their crew makes themselves scarce as Peter settles behind the wheel of the van. 

MJ has a thought as she approaches the driver’s window. “You do have a license, right?”

Peter frowns. “I’m 28 years old.”

MJ shrugs, folding her hands in the window. “A lot of New Yorkers can’t drive.”

“I’m from Queens,” Peter says, and he checks the rearview mirrors pointedly. 

“Right,” MJ says. It’s not lost on her that he’s constantly moving, hands fidgeting. Nerves. 

“How are you doing?” she asks.

“Fine,” he says, poking at the radio dial. 

MJ almost smiles. “You know what fine stands for? Fucked up, insecure--”

“Neurotic, emotional,” Peter finishes. “Yeah, I know.”

But he doesn’t sound mad.

If anything, he sounds a little softer.

And he’s stopped fidgeting. 

She looks at him, for a minute, thankful he’s doing this. Yes, they need him for the safe, but it’s good for him to be here, to get Betty back for this. 

It might be good for her to have him here too. 

She wonders what he’s thinking. 

“MJ, it’s time,” Ned says quietly, from back a couple yards.

She breaks away, backing from the car and tapping the side of it. Ned climbs in the back, Brad jogs over to the rental car he’ll tail them in, and MJ hangs back with Liz as they drive off. 

“He’s gonna be fine, babe,” Liz says, coming up beside her.

MJ nods.

He will be, and they’ll get the video. She still feels like a dick for this, though. 

They head back to the hotel, where Ned hooked up live feeds from the camera in the flag. Later, he’ll go through it and make a schematic, but for now, it just lets them see what Peter’s doing.

Or what Betty does.

MJ and Liz exchange a look when her voice changes once she sees Peter. 

It gets deeper, and her silk robe falls a little open. 

MJ can hear the tension on Peter’s voice, but Betty doesn’t seem to notice. She leads the way through the house, swaying; Peter stops at each doorway, and does the pivoting turns Ned had instructed him to do. 

They see the Worthington. 

It’s gleaming black, imposing, in the middle of Betty’s office. Peter’s step falters, but then he continues. He does a pretty good job bluffing with the cables, fidgeting until MJ gives Ned the signal, and Brad sends the whole thing back online. 

Betty’s pretty shameless, talking about how the last guy who hooked up the TV was like 300 lbs and so, well, she just much prefers having Carl there.

Carl’s the name on the uniform Liz stole.

Peter goes to another room and Betty follows, asks if they’ve met before.

The audio cuts out for a moment; when it’s back online, Betty is pressing for dinner on Friday.

“How do we get him out of there?” Liz mutters, her hands in fists. 

MJ shakes her head; they should’ve seen this coming. But back here, there’s nothing they can do. 

“Sign here,” Peter says, handing over a clipboard for a signature. 

Betty signs, not breaking eye contact.

Peter takes it back, looks at it, points again. “Date,” he says. 

“And I thought you’d never ask,” Betty says, taking the clipboard back and putting the date next to her signature. 

“Uh, no, I didn’t mean--” Peter begins. 

“I know,” Betty sighs. “God forbid you actually get dinner with me.”

The room is quiet and MJ knows exactly what Betty is doing, switching from showing her cards to self-deprecation. It works, nine times out of ten. But killing the only family the cable man has, that counts as that tenth. 

The pin camera rises quickly; Peter’s breathing has quickened. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says. 

“What,” Betty demures, “you’re one of those people who don’t believe business and pleasure can mix?”

“I’m going to vomit,” Liz says. 

MJ gets it. 

“Look, it’s just dinner,” Betty says. And she is charming, she really is, pushing her hair behind her ear, blue eyes wide. “Not a big deal, and if you don’t like me then, that’s all there is to it.”

“Phone, Liz,” MJ says, hand out. 

Liz dials, hands it to MJ; on the camera, Betty jumps when her phone rings. She makes a face, swiping to accept the call. 

“Who is this?” she says, terse, still smiling at Peter. 

“Guten tag,” MJ says, pitching her voice higher. “Ich hätte gerne Briefmarken zu siebzig cent.”

Liz makes a face. “What the hell?” she whispers. 

“What the hell,” Betty says. “Who is this?”

“Das mach genau sieben euros, bitte schön,” MJ says, then gestures to Liz, who scrambles. Liz texts something quickly, then Peter’s cell goes off. The camera dips as his shoulder sag in relief. 

“I have to take this,” he whispers, “It’s uh, my boss.”

MJ mutes her mic and Liz is shouting before he answers the call, just to sell the bit. “--you know we have a full day, Carl, so tell me why you’re not at the Henderson’s yet??”

“Sorry,” he says, to Liz on the phone and Betty, who’s staring. “I’m on my way.”

“Wait--” Betty says; Liz nods to MJ who takes herself off mute again.   
“Ich möchte gerne ein Bankkonto er ö ffnen!!” MJ yells. 

Betty winces, pulling the phone from her ear. “Look, you have the wrong number, I--”

Peter’s backing away to the door, still apologizing to his boss.

“F üllen sie dieses formular aus , ” MJ continues. 

“How did you even get this line,” Betty asks, and they can’t see her on the pin cam anymore, as Peter leaves. “Carl, wait--”

Peter makes it out the door.. 

“Falsche nummer?” MJ says. “Auf wiedersehen.”

She hands the phone back to Liz, turning her coms on. “Leeds?”

“Yeah,” Ned says. “He’s in the van. We’re heading out.”

“We’ll pick you up.”

“Roger that.”

Everyone’s quiet for a moment.

“Didn’t know you spoke German, MJ,” Liz says. 

“I don’t,” MJ says, grabbing keys from off the desk and tossing them at Liz. “That’s everything I can remember from my German textbook in high school.”

They meet Ned and Peter at a Dairy Queen parking lot up the street from the cable company, where they dropped the van. Peter’s back in street clothes, his face clouded, and Ned is a couple steps behind him, arms full of his laptop, a worried expression on his face. 

Liz looks at MJ, steps forward. “Let’s figure out how to get this stuff back to Shutters, hon,” she says to Ned. 

Peter looks up, registering that they’re there. 

Liz hands the rental car keys back to MJ and leads Ned across the parking lot; Brad will swing by in a minute with the surveillance van. 

“Come on,” MJ says, tipping her head to the Dairy Queen. 

Peter looks up at it.

“Are they going to do the flip thing?”

He looks genuinely hopeful, and MJ tamps down her worry. “Have you never been to Dairy Queen?”

Peter shakes his head. “They don’t have any in the city.”

“Then, yeah, we’ll get you a blizzard so they can do the flip thing.”

Peter stuffs his hands in his pockets, and they head up to the shop, the recycled AC making MJ wince as the door blows open. Peter follows her up to the register and then looks petrified with the number of choices, so she orders an oreo blizzard, and some cheesecake concoction that’s their special this month. 

They sit in a plastic booth, and MJ wipes some abandoned fries off the table with a handful of napkins from the end of the table. 

“So,” MJ says.

“If you say ‘how goes the date’, it’s not funny this time.”

MJ looks at him, surprised. Sure, they don’t know each other that well, but hopefully well enough for him to know she wouldn’t do that.

“Sorry,” he says, after a beat.

He unrolls his sleeves, rebuttoning them at the wrists, and MJ purses her lips. 

“No, I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have sent you in there.”

Peter huffs. “We didn’t have a choice; it had to be me.”

“That’s my call to make,” MJ says. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“Number 76,” calls the teenager behind the counter. Peter hops up and the guy hands over two blizzards, with the obligatory flip. Peter sets them both down on the table, sitting. 

“That was anticlimactic,” he says.

MJ nods. “Which do you want?”

He takes the cheesecake one. 

They eat their ice cream for a moment, not really wanting or enjoying it, but the AC is consistent, and so is silence. 

Peter pokes his spoon into the blizzard, so it stands straight up. 

“Did you order stamps from Betty?” 

MJ almost smiles. “That and Erlkönig are the only German I know from high school.”

Peter laughs. “I thought that’s what I heard. I was pretty confused until I saw the text from Liz.”

MJ pushes a chunk of oreo around in the cup, a trail of cookie crumbs behind it.

She can’t imagine what it must’ve been like.

To stand face to face with the person who killed May, not give anything away, let her flirt…

“Hey are you okay?”

MJ looks up at Peter’s question. “Me?”

Peter shrugs. “I mean, yeah.”

MJ tilts her head, looking at him. 

He looks back, doesn’t see why she should be asking the question, not him. 

“I’m good,” she says, quiet. “You?”

Peter raises his eyebrows, takes another spoonful of the blizzard. “I don’t believe you. But same.”

MJ lifts a piece of oreo. “Cheers to us, then.”

Peter fishes up a piece of cheesecake, and air-cheerses back. 

**Author's Note:**

> Why yes, the title is just the tag line from the movie because my mind stopped working. I’ve never written this pairing before but I love them a lot so idk hope y’all like it


End file.
